In one of your emails a couple of months ago you wrote that Aidan and I had never been very happy together. That’s not exactly true – we were in the beginning, for a
while – but I know what you meant. And I do wonder why I’ve spent all this time feeling depressed about the end of something that wasn’t working anyway. I suppose on one level it’s just worse to get to the age of thirty without even one really happy relationship behind me. I think I would feel superficially sadder, but less fundamentally broken as a person, if I could just be sad about one break-up, rather than sad about my lifelong inability to sustain a meaningful relationship. But on the other hand, maybe it’s something else. All those times I thought about breaking up with Aidan, and even talked about doing it, why didn’t I? I don’t think it was just because I loved him, although I did, and I don’t think it was the idea that I would miss him, because it never really occurred to me that I would, and to be honest with myself I haven’t. Sometimes I think I was afraid that without him my life would be just the same, or even worse, and I would have to accept that it was my fault. And it was easier and safer to stay in a bad situation than to take responsibility for getting out. Maybe, maybe. I don’t know. I tell myself that I want to live a happy life, and that the circumstances for happiness just haven’t arisen. But what if that’s not true? What if I’m the one who can’t let myself be happy?
Because I’m scared, or I prefer to wallow in self-pity, or I don’t believe I deserve good things, or some other reason. Whenever something good happens to me I always find myself thinking: I wonder how long it will be until this turns out badly. And I almost want the worst to happen sooner, sooner rather than later, and if possible straight away, so at least I don’t have to feel anxious about it anymore.
If, as I think is quite possible now, I never have any children and never write any books, I suppose I will leave nothing on this earth to be remembered by. And maybe that’s better. It makes me feel that rather than worrying and theorising about the state of the world, which helps no one, I should put my energy into living and being happy. When I
try to picture for myself what a happy life might look like, the picture hasn’t changed very much since I was a child – a house with flowers and trees around it, and a river nearby, and a room full of books, and someone there to love me, that’s all. Just to make a home there, and to care for my parents when they grow older. Never to move, never to board a plane again, just to live quietly and then be buried in the earth. What else is life for? But even that seems so beyond me that it’s like a dream, completely unrelated to anything in reality. And yes, when it comes to myself and Simon, two bedrooms please.
All my love always. E.
21
The following night, a Wednesday, Alice went out to meet Felix and some of his friends at a bar called The Sailor’s Friend, on a street corner near the pier. She arrived at the bar around nine o’clock, flushed from the walk, wearing a grey turtleneck and tapered trousers. Inside, it was warm and noisy. A long dark counter ran the length of the left wall, and behind it, above the spirit bottles, was a collection of colourful postcards. In front of an open hearth, a lurcher lay sleeping, its long delicate face resting on its paws.
Felix and his friends were seated near a window at the back, in the midst of a good-natured argument about the marketing of online gambling. When Felix saw Alice approaching, he stood up, greeted her, touched her waist, and asked what she would like to drink. Gesturing back at his friends, he added: You know them crowd, you’ve met them before. Sit down, I’ll go and get you something. She sat with his friends while he went to the bar. A woman named Siobhán was telling a story about a man she knew who had taken out a sixty-thousand-euro loan to cover his gambling debts. Alice appeared to find the story very interesting, and asked several specific questions. When Felix came back with the vodka tonic, he sat down beside her and put his hand on her lower back, smoothing the wool of her sweater under his fingers.
At midnight they walked back together from the bar to his house. Upstairs in bed Alice lay flat on her back, and Felix was on top of her. Her eyelids were fluttering and she was breathing rapidly, noisily. He rested his weight on one elbow, pressing her right leg back against her chest. Did you think about me while you were away, he asked. In a tight voice she replied: I think about you every night. He shut his eyes then. Her breath seemed to come over her in waves, forcing itself into her lungs and out again through